


Rite of Passage

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:13:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Time - that is, the first time Jim and Blair go to Pride.  Coming out isn't easy - but it can be rewarding.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rite of Passage

## Rite of Passage

by Jantique

Pet Fly having abandoned them, Jim and Blair, like Lincoln, now belong to the ages.   


Send applause, rotten tomatoes and feedback to the author at Jantique1020@hotmail.com   


Part of the "Love While We're Here" series. R-rated for adult themes and discussion of D/s. The dates (and number of days) work out for 1999, the 30th anniversary of Stonewall. Sadly, the emotions--and the feeling and acts that trigger them--are all still true.   


This story is a sequel to: Officer Down! 

* * *

The words to "I'm Thinking About The Ones Who Aren't Here" by Meg Christian come from my own faulty memory. Any mistakes, _mea culpa_. 

**RITE OF PASSAGE**  
by Jantique 

"If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?" --Hillel 

_And this is for us all._

When Jim Ellison joined the Army, he thought, "Now I'm a man." In Peru, he learned what he would and would not do for his own survival, and that of the tribe. Through his marriage and the subsequent divorce, he learned about Love--what he expected from it, what he needed to give. Regaining his enhanced senses, and learning to ask for help to deal with them. Accepting that help from a "neo-hippie witchdoctor punk". Learning to trust him--learning to love him. Each time, he stood before the mirror and said, "Oh. So _this_ is what I look like." Each time, the picture changed a little. He'd been afraid that it might change too much. This time, the change was his own choice. It didn't come easily for him. Now he stood in front of the mirror, and he wasn't sure whom he saw. Was he changing out of all recognition? Or was this his true self? 

* * *

The decision had been made, but the die was not yet cast. They would go to the Cascade Gay Pride March. He, James Ellison, who had never in his life come out to anyone whom he hadn't gone to bed with, was going to _march_ in the Cascade Gay  & Lesbian Pride March. Publicly, in front of everyone. It was scary. There would be consequences. But he felt a compulsion. He was almost 40 years old, and after all this time, it was not only conceivable, it was _necessary_. 

Blair went on the Internet, looking for information about the March. Along the way, he managed to gather information on the Stonewall riots, the Mattachine Society and the Sacred Band of Thebes. Jim called the Gay Officers Action League, Northwest (GOAL/NW). (Lesbian, Bisexual and Transsexual officers had graciously put aside their claims in favor of the acronym, though not without considerable wrangling). At that, he didn't have the nerve to call from the bullpen. He used his cell phone in the truck. He introduced himself, and asked whether the Cascade P. D. would have a contingent in the March. Yes, Lt. Goldman assured him, there would be a local contingent, though most of the police marching would be from Seattle or Portland. Particularly after Det. Wills's death, many cops thought it was just too risky to march in their own home town. Being out in their own precinct, with the people they worked with, who knew them, was one thing. Marching in front of the whole city--in front of all those other, _straight_ cops who were doing crowd control--was something else. Then the name recognition kicked in. 

"Det. _Ellison_?" 

"Yes." Shit. He could feel it coming now. 

"Jim Ellison? Officer of the Year?" 

He ground his teeth. "Look, I want to come, but I _don't_ want to be a poster boy. Okay?" 

Her voice was unexpectedly warm. "Oh, I understand completely! That's the great thing about the March--you're _not_ doing it alone, we're all together. Believe me, no one will make you a poster boy if you don't want to be one. With some of the exhibitionists who come to Pride, no one will even notice the cops! Detective, there are going to be thousands of marchers--maybe _tens_ of thousands of people watching." She hesitated. "Um, let me ask, is this your first Pride?' 

"Yeah." 

"Well, I don't know where you're at, in your personal journey. But I do hope you will march with us--oh, and wear your uniform if you can find it. But if you're not ready to march, just _come_. Stand there and watch and wave. Believe me, every person who turns out _means_ something. We need your presence, and . . . I can promise you, you'll regret it if you don't come, but you won't be sorry if you do." 

He wondered about that. It was a fine line between self-preservation and fear. He was a survivor. But cowardice was not an option. Hell! He needed to talk to Sandburg. 

Home. Jim looked around the loft with satisfaction. Everything he needed was right here. His lover, his home, the TV remote control--okay, just kidding about the remote. But this was a _safe_ place. So why--? 

"Blair? " his voice was soft. "Do you want to do this?" 

Blair looked up from his magazine, then saw the look on his lover's face. "By "this", you mean the Gay Pride march, right?" 

Jim nodded. 

"And you want me to tell you what to do." 

"You're my Guide. That's your job." 

Blair shook his head. "Sorry, love, it's not that simple. Not about this. Anyway, you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I tell you what to do with your senses. Well, I don't. I'm not _that_ dominating--at least, not out of bed!" He quirked a grin. 

The Sentinel was confused. But that was all right, because he knew his Guide would explain. 

"Jim, I tell you how to _control_ your senses. I help you visualize the dials, so you have the _option_ of turning them up or down. If I tell you to, umm, piggyback your sight onto your hearing, it's because you've given me a goal you want to achieve, and I try to help you reach it. We work together, but we're still individuals. I can't give you _orders_ , and damn well not about this! Coming out is something everyone has to decide for him or herself." 

Fair enough, but no help. "Well, will you go? I mean, if I don't." 

Sandburg frowned. "Well, from what you say, the guys at Major Crimes have a pretty good idea about us." 

"Yeah, but they just accept us. We belong there. It's not them I'm worried about." Jim reached over and ruffled the beautiful brown curls. "Look, you know I think you're a trouble magnet." He held up a hasty hand, before Blair could protest. "Maybe you're not, maybe it's hanging around me that does it. But I don't want to put you in any more trouble, especially with homophobic, self-righteous cretins who don't appreciate how wonderful you are." 

Blair looked up and smiled. "I know, and I love you for it. But--" Oh! The brain jolted into gear, as he realized that he had to make his decision--at least, what he said--based on how Jim would react. For himself, he was proud of being The Great Obfuscator--it was a survival tactic. When you were smaller and usually younger than everyone else, you tried to blend in, not put yourself on the line. But Jim had grown up with words like Duty, Honor, Courage--and then he'd had to _lie_ about his very being, all his life. Blair was willing to go for it if Jim wanted to. But he had to get Jim to decide for _himself_ , not what he thought Blair wanted, or what would protect the Guide best. 

So, after a moment, he continued, "Jim, if you decide not to go, I won't go to Gay Pride here in Cascade, because that would out _you_. I'll wait and go down to San Francisco; I don't know anyone there, no one knows me, and I'll march there." What he would _do_ was stay home with Jim, disconnect the phone, and make love all day, their own personal version of Gay Pride. Though he didn't think that would happen. Jim just needed that little push. 

Jim nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay, let's do it. Together." 

So they did. 

On the morning of June 19th, Pride Day, it rained. Cascade, June, weekend, parade--of course it rained! But by 10:00, when people started gathering in their various groups, it was only drizzling. And just at noon, when the March officially kicked off, the sun burst through. Everyone cheered. The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds for the rest of the day, but it didn't rain again. 

Det. Ellison dragged his uniform out of the back of his closet, and could (with a certain amount of swearing) still fit into it. Sandburg was torn between marching with the police--after all, he was Ellison's partner on the job as well as off--and going on ahead with the Rainier University contingent. He was amazed how large the group was. All right, mostly students, but still. And each school had its own banner! (Well, not Anthropology. But he saw banners for the Schools of Law, Economics and Public Health. He thought about making up his own little sign, "Anthropology". Of course, he'd have to write pretty small.) He decided that what with the crowds, noise, smells, et cetera, the Sentinel would need him more than RU did. Besides, _who_ had remembered to grab the earplugs when they left the house this morning? Ha! Anyway, being with Jim would be much more fun--but that was _purely_ ancillary to Doing His Duty. 

There were thousands--tens of thousands--of people marching. Ten times that many watched them go by, applauding, waving, throwing flowers and confetti from balconies and rooftops. And it seemed that _everyone_ cheered when the gay police contingent went by. It was amazing. So many groups, so many people. They had both seen crowds before, and Blair had been in plenty of protests, but it wasn't just the numbers, it was the people themselves. All races, religions, backgrounds, beliefs. Parents pushing strollers and carrying children piggyback. Dogs with rainbow kerchiefs and pink triangles stuck on their fur. Dykes on Bikes, people in wheelchairs, on foot in sneakers and spike heels. Laughing, singing, chanting serious and silly mantras, women and men in uniforms, tee shirts, jeans with no shirts, and some of the queens so outrageous they would put Mardi Gras to shame. 

Through the river of people flowed certain common feelings. UNITY: they were all different, they didn't all agree or even like one another, but they stood here together, for themselves, for each other. ANGER: 1999 was THIRTY FUCKING YEARS since the Stonewall riots, yet gays and lesbians still could not marry their lovers; there was still no cure for AIDS, and rampant discrimination against those who had it; "don't ask, don't tell" would be laughable if it weren't insulting and humiliating; they could lose their housing or jobs if they stopped lying about what they were and whom they loved; they were almost guaranteed to lose custody of their children, they could lose their lives--for loving. For loving another human being. One day a year didn't change that, but it was a start, then you had to go back to your life and work to change things. But it was a start. PRIDE: Oh. So that was what it was. Putting your arm around your lover's waist, walking down the street holding his hand. Simple things. Sharing a laugh and a loving peck on the cheek, followed by the quick, furtive look around--had anyone noticed?--realizing that it didn't matter who saw, it was all right, because you were surrounded by _family_ , and this was HOME. It was exhilarating, a natural high. Blair walked four miles and his feet didn't touch the ground once. Jim sought out Lt. Goldman, a petite redhead wearing a uniform with a short skirt and high heels. 

"You were right," he smiled down at her. "I'm glad I came." 

She smiled back. "I told you that you wouldn't be sorry." 

The march wound through the city, past City Hall, through the South End, the closest thing to a "gay neighborhood" Cascade had, back around to the waterfront, circling and finally inside Memorial Park. There the groups broke up, banners were folded, and people drifted away, to picnic, wander among the booths set up, or listen to the speeches being broadcast from the temporary stage. 

Blair always took Jim's breath away, but now he was moving in on Jim's territory. Jim thought _he_ was the one who was supposed to be prepared for anything. He'd told Blair not to bring his backpack. "Come on, Sandburg, you want to schlep that thing for miles? Don't expect me to carry it; it doesn't go with the uniform." Sandburg insisted. He'd brought, in addition to the earplugs, water bottles (vital on the long, hot walk, and enough to share), a couple of energy bars, a beach towel to sit on when they got to the park, and--this was the part that took Jim's breath away--a tank top and shorts for Jim to change into, out of the broiling uniform. True, he had to change in the Portasan (TM), but it was worth it. (The uniform went into the backpack, which Jim gratefully promised to carry for the rest of the day, and forever, if his beautiful, brilliant, _foresighted_ lover so desired.) 

Jim wanted to hear the speeches, Blair was hungry. They spread out the towel under a tree, not too close to the loudspeakers. Jim pulled his shoes and socks off his sweaty feet. "Hey, Chief, you didn't bring me sandals?" 

"You've gotta be _kidding_ , man! Why didn't you bring your own sandals? Or shirt, or shorts, or water--" 

"Hey, I'm joking! I'm grateful, believe me!" 

"--or earplugs!" Blair finished triumphantly, as he went off in search of sustenance. Jim let him get the last word in--he deserved it. He wriggled his feet and stretched. This far back from the stage, and not too close to the stands, it wasn't packed. But even using normal vision, he could see thousands of people milling about. Now, not all the marchers were local, he knew that. But most were. And the spectators--gay and straight and bi and whatever--they all lived here, or in the area. They all came out--in both senses of the word--to show their support. Openly, unafraid--or maybe afraid but doing it anyway, which required greater courage. So, between the marchers and the spectators, he mused, these were all the gay men and lesbians of Cascade. (He was wrong. Not all--there were two other groups, but he didn't think of them yet.) The MC introduced two women with guitars. 

Blair bounded up, arms full, ponytail flying. "Hey. Babe! I got a felafel, and I got you some teriyaki steak tips, easy on the sauce, and there's no alcohol here, but I got two fresh lemonades, not too much sugar in yours!" Jim couldn't help smiling at the younger man's exuberance. He helped him get settled, and they started to eat. 

One of the singers said, "We're very happy and _proud_ to be here, and to see you all." (Applause) "We're going to play an old song, a classic by Meg Christian. Unfortunately it's still true, more now than ever. So we'd like everyone to take a moment to remember the ones who aren't here. And this is for us all. 

"I'm thinking about the ones who aren't here, And won't be coming in late. 

Home all alone, and the family,  
And won't be coming out tonight. 

Wish I could know all the lovers and friends Kept from gathering. 

I think of you now, the ways you could go, We're all of us refugees. 

Telling myself, and my family,  
My friends, and the folks on the job. 

One by one, and it's never been easy,  
And me, and everyone's changed. 

The hopes and the fears when they show you their hearts-- That some never speak again. 

Every pot off the wheel can't bear the kiln, And every love can't bear the pain." 

Blair asked quietly, "Do you think it's about AIDS? I mean, all the people who have died?" 

"Yeah, partly," Jim replied, equally hushed. "But I think it's also about the ones who are too afraid to come out, because they have too much to lose, or they've been hurt too badly already. Or maybe they think they can't change the whole world, so they lock themselves away in their own safe little corner." 

"Like us." 

"Yeah, Chief. Like us." 

"So let's have a kiss, and a happy-sad tear, And a toast, the whole circle round, 

For the ones who aren't here, for the hate and the fear, For laughter, for struggle, for life. 

Let's have a song here for me and you,  
And the love that we cannot hide. 

And let's have a song for the ones who aren't here And won't be coming out tonight." 

They applauded, then sat quietly for a minute when the song was over. It was inspiring. Unfortunately, the next group up used electronic instruments, and they weren't stingy with the amplification. Jim grabbed his earplugs and stuck them back in. 

"Come one, Chief, let's clean up this trash and go see what we can spend money on." 

They wandered among the rows of booths. A few were commercial, but most featured home-made food or hand-made crafts, clothing, jewelry, CDs and cassettes of women's and men's music, buttons and bumper stickers, free copies of "The Rainbow Waterfall", Cascade's gay newspaper, political action groups, the Human Rights Campaign and a drive to register people to vote, lots of tee shirts, hats and other paraphernalia featuring pink or black triangles and rainbow flags. 

Blair couldn't resist buying a heart-shaped Mylar balloon with the rainbow stripes on it. More accurately, he chirped, "Oh, I _love_ balloons!", and gave Jim the puppy-dog look. 

Jim started to say, "Sandburg, that is such a waste of--", closed his mouth, sighed, and said, "All right, but just _one_. And if you lose it. . . ." 

"No, I'll tie it on. Besides, it will help you find me if we get separated." 

Jim smiled. "Not unless your heart stops beating, love. You know I can find you anywhere." 

"Yeah, I know." Blair smiled back, and then they did it, right in the middle of Memorial Park, in broad daylight -- they kissed. It wasn't a "get the fire hoses" kind of kiss, just loving and affectionate, needing to express the swell of emotion in their hearts. Giving themselves permission to do it. 

Yes, there were a lot of distractions to his senses, but the Sentinel found he really didn't mind what should have been a massive overload. Maybe because they were outdoors, rather in a closed space. Maybe because there were so many different sensations hitting his senses at once, they cancelled each other out. Maybe, he realized, because that he was more relaxed than he'd been in a long time. He figured he must be doing something right. 

They strolled over to a tee shirt stand. The shirts were adorned with triangles, flags and various slogans or sayings. They took turns pointing out the funny or outrageous ones, laughing and wondering whether anyone would ever wear them in public. On the other hand . . . . 

"Jim? What are you looking at?" 

He was a little embarrassed. "Umm, that one." He waved vaguely at a shirt hanging on a screen. Blair looked up, and his eyes widened. 

"Ooh! You like?" 

He was just a little--well, not shocked, exactly, but he had to stop to process this. While it was true that sexually he was usually dominant and Jim was more comfortable being submissive, it was _always_ consensual, and they had _never_ used words like-- 

Blair said quietly, "Babe? Do you want me to buy that shirt for you?" 

The big man muttered, "Yeah," staring at the ground, blushing furiously. Blair thought he looked Absolutely Adorable. But he wasn't going to let Jim get away with pretending that this was Blair's idea, or that it was something he was doing to make Blair happy. 

"James, look at me." It was the Guide voice, that Ellison trusted unconditionally. He looked up, face still pink. "Jim, tell me what you want. What _you_ want. Give yourself permission." 

He could never resist that voice. He looked up, into vivid, deep blue eyes. Even embarrassment didn't stand a chance against those eyes. 

"Chief, I . . . I want to wear that shirt for you. At _home_." 

Blair smiled gently. "Jim, you know _anything_ you want is good with me." Then he asked the vendor if they could please see _that_ shirt in an XL. The busy dealer hooked it down and didn't spare them a second glance. 

The tee was black with short sleeves. In white letters, it read, 

Not Without  
Consent  
From My  
 **MASTER**

Blair admitted to himself that he felt a rush, picturing Jim wearing that shirt. He couldn't even imagine what Jim was feeling. //Whoa, time out!// All the blood in his body was rushing somewhere other than his brain, and his jeans were getting tight. He reminded himself firmly that this _wasn't for him_. Well, that was a crock, of course it was. The thought of Jim at home, wearing nothing _but_ that shirt . . . ! //Down, boy!// Still, this had to be about what Jim wanted. 

"Babe? Listen, I don't need this. You know that I am _so_ not into labels, right? But if you want it, I'll get it for you." 

Jim took a deep breath. "Yeah, Chief, I know. But--as long as you don't mind ...." 

"No, I don't mind!" This really was very courageous of Jim. As lover, partner and Guide, Blair figured that it was his duty to push just a little bit more. He paid for the shirt and moved aside, out of the lane of traffic. Then he said, "Jim, let me ask you something. I'm not telling you to do it, but do you _want_ to wear this shirt now? Do you have any _desire_ to?" 

Jim mumbled, "Umm." Blair waited. 

Finally Jim said, "Well, it's . . . it's like, I see everyone looking at you, you don't realize, but every man here is giving you the eye. I know you think they're looking at me, but either way, I want to say, 'Hey, he's taken; he's mine and I'm his!' But I just--I'm just too aware of people looking." 

Blair nodded. "Okay, it's your decision. _Entirely._ All I want to say is, you should give yourself permission to do what you want to do, without caring what other people think. Do what makes you happy. If it doesn't feel right, then don't do it. But--hey, look around you." He waved at the assemblage. "You think these people _care_? If not now, when, man?" 

Jim looked around. Sandburg was absolutely right, of course--no one here would care. It was really a matter of giving permission to himself. He took a deep breath. 

"Okay, let's do it." He slipped off the backpack, stripped off his tank top, and pulled on the tee. Blair's smile was radiant. "Looks good, man! Jim, you make me so proud, you are the bravest man I know, and damn _right_ you belong to me, I'd be a fool to ever let you go!" 

Blair turned to Jim, slipping his left hand up under the shirt, putting it over his lover's heart. He turned into the crook of Jim's arm, pressing against him. Jim looked down at his lover happily. He would _never_ let Blair go, come hell or high-- 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash. A freckled, red-headed young man bounded towards them, holding a camera. "Hi, my name's Chris Near; I'm from the 'Waterfall'." He looked impossibly like Jimmy Olsen (Cub Reporter). Jim froze; Blair snatched his hand away from Jim's chest and moved a step away. 

Blair demanded, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" 

"Oh, listen, that was a _great_ photo. Perfect Pride--you're obviously in love, you're here together--but listen, I'm not into outing anybody. We don't have to use it, okay?" 

Blair was about to scream, "Damn right you're not using it!", but he stopped himself and looked at Jim. Who shrugged and said, "Guess we're coming out with a vengeance, huh, Chief?" Blair almost fell on the floor. 

He hastily said to Near, "Okay, wait a minute, just--wait." Then he turned back to this unknown being who looked like his lover, and demanded, "Who are you and what have you done with Jim Ellison?!" 

Ellison smirked. It wasn't often he could top Sandburg at his own game. He shrugged again. "I figured, if we're out, we're out. What the hell. Besides, if they see that, maybe the guys at the station will stop hitting on you." 

"The guys at the station are not hitting-- Look, that's not the point, okay?" 

"Right. The point, if you want to tell the nice man not to use the picture, then I support that 100 percent. Frankly, right now, I don't care. I feel like Superman, I feel like I can fly, I can do anything--as long as I'm with you. I want to stop pretending, I want someone to _win_ the damn office pool already, and whatever shit goes down, I can handle it as long as we're together." 

Blair was overwhelmed. "Oh, Jim, that's so beautiful!" 

Near sighed happily. Working for a newspaper, he was a professional cynic, but he knew the Real Thing when he saw it. (Besides, he would have used the shot anyway, so it was nice to have authorization, just so they didn't sue.) 

"Umm, you guys want to give me a quote? About Pride, yourselves, anything?" 

They thought about it. Blair restrained an insane desire to say, "Hi, Mom!" If Naomi ever saw a picture of _that_ tee shirt, she would meditate him a new one! 

Then Jim said calmly, "Okay, I'm Jim and this is Blair. We've been together for 1,186 days, since we first met, and I think I'm the luckiest man in the world. I'd be dead or insane now if it weren't for Blair, but more than just saving me, he gives a new reason to live every day." 

The cynical newspaperman simply gaped. Blair said, "Uh, Jim? 1,186 days?" 

"That's right." 

Near said, disbelievingly, "You count the days? Or did you just make that up?" 

"No, I don't consciously count, but I'm always aware of Blair when we're together, and even more, in a way, when we're apart. I spent most of my life without him, and I don't intend to waste another day." 

Near was scribbling like crazy in a small notebook. Blair helpfully repeated, "That's 1,186 days. And by the way, some of them have been really horrendous. But Jim's right; I'm always thinking about him, whether we're apart or together, and when we're together--well, I never had a home, but now I do. Wherever Jim is. And let me tell you, there's no place like home!" 

They looked at each other, and then they did it again, right in the middle of Memorial Park, in broad daylight--they kissed. And _this_ time, they very nearly did have get out the fire hoses. Then they went home and made love all Saturday night and most of Sunday. Monday morning they went to the station--but that's another story. 

"You are not required to complete the task, but neither may you refrain from beginning it." --Hillel 

* * *

End Rite of Passage by Jantique: Jantique1020@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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